


My King

by amyfortuna



Series: Season of Kink 2017 [4]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Dom/sub, M/M, Ring of Barahir, Semi-Public Sex, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-09 11:41:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11668422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: Boromir isn't sure what to make of Aragorn, but he's known from the very moment of their first meeting that he wants to submit to him.





	My King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DachOsmin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/gifts).



> Also fulfils my Season of Kink square for Authority Figures.

As Boromir entered the library and approached the statue, he did not even notice the man, sitting on a low chair like he'd grown there, not making a so much as a sound when he turned the pages in his book. He examined the shards laid out on the grey cloth, and spoke almost as if to himself, ignoring all else. Boromir only picked up on the other man's presence when he quietly stirred, looking up, a grave peace in his solemn grey eyes. 

Those eyes flustered him. They took him unawares, eyes so old, old as his father's, in the face of a seemingly young man. Ancient eyes, rich with knowledge, deep with confident peace. He could not meet them, and though he blustered, there with the sword, and again, the next day, at the Council, when he learned just who Aragorn, son of Arathorn, was, there was no force behind it. 

When the long morning rose to afternoon and the Council was finally done, Boromir made his excuses, senses still aflame with the nearness of the man. Aragorn had been standing next to him as they both pledged their aid to Frodo, and Boromir could still feel his warmth, still catch on the breeze the faint scent of him. So he hurried away, saying something about wanting to check on his horse, but when he reached the stables he did nothing but bow his head into her soft brown mane and groan softly, hoping no sharp Elvish ears were nearby to hear his anguish. 

He wanted to drop to his knees before the Dúnadan, wanted to bury his flaming cheeks in the soft cloth of Aragorn's trousers, nuzzle along the velvet until he reached the outline of the man's cock, and press his lips against it. He wanted to whisper words of love and obedience, vows of loyalty, promises of devotion, ecstatic oaths of submission and devout allegiance. 

But he was not his own to swear what he would. He was the heir of the Steward of Gondor; he was his father's son. His father would never brook an oath of devotion to any but the true heir of Isildur, and Aragorn's claim was by no means fully established. The word of a Wood-elf, true though Legolas might think it, meant little in the high halls of Minas Tirith, and any man might claim the shards of Narsil as his own when they lay inert in Imladris for all to see. 

Boromir straightened himself, patting the horse on her back, speaking to her softly. She was certainly provided for well here and would no doubt have a fine and well-fed winter. 

With a final caress and a few more words of praise, he left her to her soft stable hay and headed for the room he had been given the evening before when he arrived. In the distance, some of the Elves were singing merrily, and he thought he caught a glimpse of two Hobbit heads among them, Merry and Pippin, most likely. Their devotion to their kinsman was extraordinary, and their laughter and jokes had put a smile on everyone's face. He had already grown quite fond of them. 

Halfway to his room, he changed his mind and headed instead toward the library where he'd wandered the evening before. It was unlikely Aragorn would be there again, but perhaps some memory of him might linger in the place to stir his heart afresh. 

The library was quiet, and Boromir settled down in the very spot where Aragorn had been sitting the previous day, where, he fancied, still the scent of him lingered, sending fire into his blood. The light of the moon drifted through the open windows, and far off, he could hear the sound of singing and of water tumbling over rocks. The night breeze seemed to caress him gently, and he sank back into the chair, one hand unconsciously reaching to palm over the erection that was swiftly becoming evident in his breeches. 

The room was dim and quiet, and he could hear no footsteps or voices anywhere nearby. It was an indulgence to touch himself like this, where anyone might wander in and catch him, and yet that was part of the thrill. He had as yet exposed no flesh, and could easily conceal his state in the darkness, if someone did happen to wander by. 

Sighing, he gave in to the fantasy that had been pursuing him ever since he'd first spoken to the Ranger of the North. He thought of the quiet authority in his eyes and imagined those eyes looking down at his kneeling form, those lips forming words of command, voice calm with the serenity of one who knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he will be obeyed. 

One hand kneading his cock through his breeches, he looked upward, as if he was glancing up seductively from a position on the floor. "My lord," he whispered. "My lord Aragorn." The name sounded well upon his lips, and the sound of it spoken, even so quietly, aloud into the darkness, sent shivers running through him and left him breathing heavily, aching to pull his cock out then and there. 

"What would you have of me?" A figure unfolded itself from the darkness further inside the library, and Boromir jumped in his seat, snatching his hand away from his cock like it was on fire. A low, desperate, panic-stricken noise escaped him, like that of a trapped animal. His heart was pounding in his breast and he could not catch his breath to speak. 

Aragorn was standing before him, outlined by the moonlight, before the sense came back into Boromir's head. "I thought I was alone," he said, struggling to keep both his voice and breath even. 

"I know," Aragorn said, looking down at him with almost an indulgent gaze, a half-smile curving about his lips. "I would have left you in peace, and you would never have known I was here, but that I heard my own name." Aragorn took a step forward, so close now that Boromir could have reached out and pressed his hand over the soft cloth covering his cock. "So I ask, what would you of me?" 

Boromir's heart leaped into his throat again. "I wish to serve you," he said, and breathed it low, "my lord." 

Aragorn reached out a hand, bringing it to Boromir's face, tipping his chin up so that Boromir was looking into Aragorn's eyes. "Do you?" he asked. "Is this the will of your heart or merely the desire of your body?" 

Breathless, Boromir responded with the only answer he could truthfully give: "I do not know." 

A smile played over Aragorn's lips as he released Boromir from his grasp. There was something mischievous, something almost Elvish, fey and trickster-like, in his eyes, and his next words were laden with that same mischief. "I did wonder how you'd look upon your knees, Man of Gondor," he said softly. 

There was no question in his voice, but all command, and yet Boromir felt that if he demurred, he would not be pressed. But he did not wish to demur. He wanted to go to his knees before Aragorn, wanted, for one night, to experience everything he'd always denied himself. His mind made up, he slid down to the floor, and Aragorn stepped back a little, to give him space. His hand still lingered near Boromir's head, and, acting on instinct, Boromir took it in both of his own, and pressed a kiss to the back of the fingers. 

A ring Aragorn was wearing caught his attention as he pressed his lips near to it, and he inspected it carefully, some lines from an old, old poem ringing through his head: " _In Felagund's ring therefore he set / eyes of serpents twined that met / beneath a golden crown of flowers / that one upholds and one devours..._ "

"This is the Ring of Barahir," Boromir breathed, drawing back to look up at Aragorn. "You are in truth the Heir of Isildur."

All the laughter was gone from Aragorn's eyes when they met Boromir's, and his voice was very soft, but steady. "I am indeed." 

Boromir looked down at Aragorn's hand in his own again, staring at the ring for a moment that seemed an eternity. "Then in truth you are my king, and both my heart and body desire nothing else but to serve you." He pressed his lips once more to Aragorn's hand, softly kissing the ancient ring on his hand, full of wonder and desire. 

After a moment, he released Aragorn's hand, and nuzzled against the soft cloth of the Elvish robe he wore, so unlike the tunic and breeches he had been wearing earlier. Aragorn's hand found its way into Boromir's hair, wordlessly urging him closer. Boromir tugged the cloth upwards as Aragorn untied the sash at his waist, to find Aragorn already half hard underneath, and said no further word, but took him into his mouth. 

Aragorn gave a faint gasp and pressed close, his hand petting Boromir's hair and then slowly fisting in it, holding him fast. Boromir licked over the cock in his mouth, gratified to feel it grow to full hardness in short order. He thought back to days before the never-ending War, days when he could take the time to find a partner who would allow him to do just this, and began to exploit every trick he'd ever learned. 

Of all the things he loved, this was the best. To feel Aragorn holding him still, moving in his mouth and throat with controlled thrusts of his hips, to suck him hard and feel him tighten his grip on Boromir's hair in response, to take small licks all around the head of his cock, finding every place that made his breath go short, that made him gasp, was bliss itself. Boromir was hard in his own breeches, so hard a touch might have undone him, yet had all but forgotten it, so focused was he on bringing his king pleasure. 

The taste of him was earthy and salty like all he had ever sucked, and somehow that small detail made it all the more real. This was no ethereal experience, no Elf who he knelt to, but a mortal man, one like himself in so many ways, but nobler, higher, than he could ever hope to be. The ring on his hand was proof of that. The whispers Boromir had heard of Aragorn's courtship of a lady no less than Arwen of Imladris spoke to that. 

But it was Boromir who served him now, Boromir who awaited the spill of his seed, Boromir who longed for every touch Aragorn could give him. 

Aragorn breathed something in Elvish, and Boromir barely managed to translate the words, "You undo me utterly!" before Aragorn was spilling in his mouth, hand still fisted in his hair. Boromir let the taste of it, the smell of it, fill his senses, one hand wrapped around Aragorn's thigh for balance, his own hips jerking helplessly inside his breeches, warm jets of seed landing both in his mouth and on his thighs. 

After a long moment, Aragorn drew away a little, releasing his hair, and Boromir sank back, blissful, looking up at Aragorn with the sense that he was in a slowly fading dream. Aragorn looked sated, blissful himself, hair falling about his shoulders, his cock still out of his robe, the sash trailing on the floor. 

"My king," Boromir breathed, low and warm, lingering over the pleasant syllables. 

Aragorn smiled, extending his hand. "Come to bed with me," he said. 

It was a command, and Boromir was eager to obey it. "As my king desires," he said, and took Aragorn's hand, standing up. Aragorn pressed forward, and rewarded him for his obedience with a kiss.


End file.
